COMPASSIONATE WISDOM IN ACTION During The 3 Doors retreat Transforming Your Life Through Meditation in November 2015, in Pauenhof, Germany, Raven Lee read aloud from her book: Unbinding the Soul – Awakening through Crisis and Compassion. The chapter touched all the participants. Jantien Spindler shares with us why the book touched her, and she selected the text Raven read in Pauenhof. I have bought the book some months ago and have read it with much attention. For me the book is a great gift. I think that to tell your biography with all the intimate aspects takes much courage. Beside this, in the way Raven Lee shares the story of her life, she shows how a deep crisis can become a blessing. The personal transformation that gave the possibility to open to deep compassion and wisdom. The compassion that is felt in every word, invited me to look again at my own life story and give light to painful events. It was as if I was telling my story to a very warm and open listening friend. It gives hope and motivation to go on working on my own hidden shadows. The integration of the scientific fields with practical solutions to challenging stories is also illuminating. As Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche writes in the Foreword: “Raven has a sincere motivation that her own healing be of benefit for others. By expressing her own journey through suffering, along with her knowledge in the fields of psychology, science, and spirituality, Raven articulates and illuminates a simple message: opening to your own suffering can be a powerful door to transformation and become a path of healing and benefit for oneself and others.” All proceeds of the book benefit the Bon community. The book is available through amazon.com. COMPASSIONATE WISDOM IN ACTION “Practicing compassion felt easy when I opened my heart to others. Cradling my own wounds and vulnerabilities, however, felt foreign and unnatural. Yet, even self-compassion seemed remedial
when compared to the feat that was opening my heart to my father. Following the separation from my mother, my father had remained in Hong Kong. I welcomed the physical and emotional distance between my father and I, especially in the wake of Gary's death. Upon hearing of my father's plans to visit Los Angeles, I knew my ability to practice compassion would be tested to the limits. I had clung to the hope that my father had mellowed and grow wiser during our time apart, but upon his arrival in Los Angeles, I soon realized that his drinking and his belligerence had amplified. One evening, after several glasses of scotch, my father descended into his ritual of complaining and barking orders. I remained calm and disengaged. Undaunted by my restraint, he simply shifted focus, directing his verbal attack toward his grandchildren. This was too much for me. For the first time since I was nine, I stood up to my father's bullying. “You cannot insult the children,” I insisted, firing the first salvo.
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“I'll say what I want,” he shouted back, eyes bulging with rage. “You're my daughter and you can't tell me what to do!” “This is my house,” I retorted. “You have to respect me and the children.” “Is this the way you treat your elders?” His voice teemed with incredulity that his dutiful daughter would answer back. “You're good-for-nothing. I'm leaving.” My courage rose. “I'll help you pack your bags.” We had each drawn our swords, prepared to do battle. My adversarial reaction fueled my father's anger. He stomped around the living room, screaming obscenities, and brandishing his fists. Suddenly, everything slowed. My fury morphed into the fierce sword of compassion, searing my anger and opening my heart. Rather than seeing my father through the eyes of an abused daughter, I connected to the suffering of a lonely old man running amok on my balcony. A surge of love flowed from my heart, holding space for my father's rage, which suddenly began to subside. Reacting with compassionate wisdom I walked toward my father, took his hands and guided him to a chair. “Sit down, Dad. You're exhausted.” He stared at me like a child. “You hurt me when you said those things,” he blurted, his eyes welling with tears. “I'm sorry you were hurt. That was not my intention.” A wiser, loving, spacious voice in me emerged. We sat in silence, gazing at each other, compassion filling the surrounding space. “Dad, why have you always treated me as a servant?” No blaming or anger accompanied my words, just a gentle curiosity for the truth. My father looked puzzled. “Why? You are my youngest daughter. You are supposed to serve me.” At that moment, all my yearnings, frustration, and pain vanished. I started to laugh. Suddenly, in a flash of understanding, I saw my father as a product of his upbringing, a man crippled by a culture that devalued women and was reared by a mother
Raven Lee.
who indulged his every whim. This moment of clarity collapsed what had been an impervious wall, allowing tenderness and acceptance to move freely between us. During the rest of my father's visit, our relationship began to shift. I learned to hold space for his drunken outbursts, which diminished in frequency. Following his visit, my father remained self-centered and quick to anger, calling occasionally to demand money. Now, however, I refused his demands out of love rather than anger. Twelve years later, I returned to Hong Kong. My father lay dying, ravaged by liver cancer and emphysema. Despite his physical deterioration, he remained tenaciously himself, boasting of his romantic conquests and hounding hospital staff for cigarettes. To avoid confrontation, my family had not spoken honestly to my father about his grave prognosis. That honor fell upon me. As I sat at the bedside and held his withering hand, I gently told him that he was dying. In this moment of intimacy, our eyes met and a deep feeling of love seemed to flow between us. My father soon fell into a peaceful sleep. I remained at his bedside, chanting the Buddhist prayers he had heard his mother recite when he was a child. Several days later, he looked at me mournfully and whispered, “Please ask your mother to forgive me. I have not been a good husband.” Tears flowed down his cheeks, which I gently wiped away. Soon after, I returned to Los Angeles. As I said good-bye, I hugged him and told him how much I loved him. He smiled and we both wept. The last memory of my father was of this precious goodbye. He died three days later.” Text selected by Jantien Spindler
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